


How Not to Cope with Memory Loss

by coffea



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Caring Wade Wilson, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Miscommunication, he’s stupid guys, oblivious!peter returns once again!, under completely different circumstances!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2020-10-29 05:14:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20791211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffea/pseuds/coffea
Summary: Peter loses his memories, so obviously Deadpool and him are dating. Right?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> guys. i am so sorry. peter is an idiot in this one. i can't stop making him into a himbo. 
> 
> in his defense, he's lost his memories. who is to say YOU wouldn't be a himbo under those circumstances?

He comes to slowly, blinking until his eyes begin to readjust and he's able to make out the white room he's in and the man clad in red next to him. The man whose hand he was currently holding. Odd.

He squeezes the fingers laced between his own experimentally, jolting back when the man's head springs up, masked eyes widening. He thinks maybe he should let go, but the man only holds on tighter, leaning forward in his chair.

"Baby boy?" The man asks carefully, rubbing a soothing thumb into his hand. "How're you feeling? You took a pretty bad fall, I was pretty worried there for a second."

He has no idea what the man was talking about, but felt bad for worrying him nonetheless.

"My head hurts a little," he replies after a second, voice stiff and unused. "Can I have some water, please?"

The man nods, quickly getting up and returning with a Hello Kitty mug. He gratefully takes it from the man's hands.

"You took a bit longer to heal than normal," The man says while he's drinking. "God, I was so worried. Betty White’s interviews couldn’t even soothe my nerves, and wow, ain't the the first—slow down a bit, sweetheart." The man gently grasps the hand holding his cup to bring it away from his face.

"Sorry. Thirsty," is all he says, because apparently sentences are failing him today. "Uh, how long was I out?"

"Eh, about a day. Which felt like a year, which in turn felt like an eternity." The man waves his hand dismissively, but he can still hear the worry in his tone. “Never do that to me again, Petey, I almost had a heart attack. Do you know how lame it'd be if I died from a heart attack right after successfully defeating aliens? So lame, baby boy. So lame."

"So lame," he echoes, and can't help but ask, "Petey? That's my name?"

"Uh, yeah. I mean, it's Peter, but same diff. Are you sure you're okay?" The worries back in his voice tenfold. "I know you don't like doctors, but maybe we could get you checked out anyways? I'm sure Banner wouldn't mind taking a look, I mean both him _and_ the big green guy seem to be in love with you, not that I'm surprised. You have that effect on people."

"I'm fine," Peter reassures, not wanting stress the man any more than he already has. "Sorry. I'm just kinda out of it right now, y'know? Aliens." Peter gives jazz hands despite having no idea what aliens had to do with anything, but supposes it's a good excuse as any for being out of it.

The man's shoulders slump, and he lets out the breath he was holding. "Yeah, aliens. Fuck those guys." The man huffs, then hurriedly stands up once he notices Peter's making an attempt to get out of bed. "Where are you going?"

"Home?" Peter replies, not quite sure himself. He thinks he should go home, but he's not exactly sure where that is.

"Ah, but home is where the heart is. And your heart is here. Literally. You're staying so I can keep an eye on that cute little butt of yours and make sure everything's alright up in here." The man taps Peter's head gently with two fingers. "But don't worry, good ol' Deadpool will take care of you."

"Deadpool," Peter sounds out, confused by the name. "I don't wanna intrude."

Peter _really_ hopes Deadpool lets him intrude. Otherwise, he'd be sleeping on a park bench tonight, considering he's got no clue where _home_ is located.

"Are you kidding? I wish you'd intrude more often, and in multiple ways," Deadpool says, somehow managing to sound sincere and suggestive at the same time.

Peter instantly feels guilty for not remembering the man in front of him. He so obviously cared for Peter, and all it took for Peter to forget about him was a little bump to the head.

"Thank you." He reaches out and takes Deadpool's hand, cradling it between both of his own. Deadpool startles at the touch, but thankfully doesn't pull away. "I appreciate all you do for me," Peter continues a little awkwardly. "I probably don't say it enough."

Deadpool seems at a loss for words, and Peter berates his past-self for not voicing his feelings to the man more often, since he's obviously not used to hearing them.

"You don't need to thank me, baby boy," Deadpool's voice is gravelly and soft. "I'd do anything you'd ask, even if it meant sawing off my own arm."

"We're friends," Peter says in explanation, testing the waters. Peter doubts you'd saw of your own arm for anyone who wasn't a friend.

"More like lovers," Deadpool corrects airily.

He tries not to look surprised. "Lovers," Peter corrects himself, finally coming to the realization that Deadpool and him were in a relationship.

That makes a lot of sense, actually. Which only ends up making Peter feel worse, considering it wasn't just a friend that he forgot but a _lover_.

Peter wonders how long they've been together. Deadpool holds himself comfortably around him, and in turn Peter can feel himself relaxing the longer he's with the man. He must know on a subconscious level who this man is, otherwise alarm bells would've gone off the moment he woke up to a giant man covered in red spandex.

Deadpool tilts his head and stares at him, and for a moment Peter wonders if he's upset that he just called them friends, but all he says is, "Okaaay, weird. Wanna watch Golden Girls?"

"Golden Girls?"

"Golden Girls, Hulu, badass old ladies. Ringing any bells? I suppose we could watch Bandersnatch again, but if anything that movie just stresses me out even more. I mean is it Sugar Puffs or Frosted Flakes? Just thinking about it gives me the shakes. So, Golden Girls it is, you feel?"

"I... feel?" A show about old ladies hula hooping?

Deadpool claps his hands together and exclaims, "Great!" before opting to scoop Peter up bridal style.

"I can walk, you know?"

"No hablo inglés," Deadpool says, lowering Peter onto a rather comfy looking couch.

Deadpool grabs the throw blanket hung over the couch and dangles it over Peter, then settles in himself at the other end. Peter frowns.

"Why are you so far?" He interrupts Deadpool's search for the show. Peter's his boyfriend. You should cuddle your boyfriend; it's in the job description and everything.

"Huh?"

"I hit my head, It's not like I'm contagious. Come closer." Peter makes grabby hands at him. "Seriously, I'm cold, and this blanket is thin."

"So... you want me to keep you warm? Me?" Peter nods slowly, and Deadpool continues, "Like, with my _body?_"

Peter nods again, curious as to why Deadpool seemed so hesitant. Perhaps they'd gotten into an argument before Peter got himself injured.

Deadpool inches closer, and Peter grabs his arm and wraps it around his own shoulders in encouragement. Deadpool makes a noise like he's been punched in the gut, which further solidifies Peter's previous theory. They must've fought over something awful, which ended with them being distant from one another.

Peter buries himself further into Deadpool's side, not liking the idea of them fighting. Deadpool tenses, so Peter squeezes his leg reassuringly, hopefully letting him know that the past is the past.

Not letting him know that Peter doesn't remember the past. But he'd remember. He's sure of it. There's no way he could forget someone like Deadpool for good. Just give it a day.

Or two.

-

It's day three and Peter's still an unfortunate amnesiac.

Thankfully, Deadpool hasn't kicked him out. In fact, Deadpool's given no indication on whether he even wants Peter to leave or not. Peter's beginning to wonder if they'd already been on the road to moving in together, and this was just part of the process.

Though it did take a little convincing to get Deadpool to share a bed with him. The man was just so careful around Peter that he couldn't help but wonder what they fought over. He thought about asking, but didn't wanna risk digging up old wounds.

The last thing he wanted was to upset the man who's been caring for him for the past few days, so he gently creeps up from behind Deadpool and wraps his arms around his torso, standing on his tippy toes to rest his chin on his shoulder.

"Uh, Petey?"

"Whatever you're cooking smells good," Peter says, looking down at what appears to be some delicious looking pancakes.

"That's sweet, sugar," Deadpool says, worry seeping back into his voice "How're you feeling today?"

Peter unwinds himself from 'Pool to hop up onto the counter. "I feel good, thank you for sleeping with me again." Deadpool chokes, and Peter continues, "I feel better when you're there. Safer."

Deadpool laughs awkwardly, but seems a bit more bubbly at Peter's words. "I'm sure you don't need me to feel safe, baby boy."

Peter tilts his head, genuinely confused. "Why don't I?"

"A strong, tough guy like yourself? You don't need me to keep you safe." Deadpool waves his hand flippantly, and Peter can't tell whether he's joking or not.

"Needing safety and feeling safe are two different things, 'Pool. A child doesn't need a nightlight to protect them from the monsters hiding in the dark, but it helps nonetheless."

"Aw, baby." Deadpool slaps a hand against his heart. "Did you just compare me to a nightlight? Sweeter words have never been spoken."

"I compared you to the feeling it brings, idiot," Peter says fondly, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "See if I try complimenting you again."

"Yeah," Deadpool drawls, "About that. What're you up to? You've been pretty generous with your compliments lately, and I can't help but feel like you're buttering me up for something." Deadpool goes to the fridge to get out a stick of butter, and Peter can't help but wonder if that was on purpose. "Did Tony ask to meet with me again? I _told_ that oversized _Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup_ I wouldn't hurt you. Five times. And he still threatened to store my decapitated head in a box."

"My father?" Peter asks, unsure of Tony and his place in his life.

"Is that what you're calling him now? That'd almost be cute If he didn't hate me so much. Why couldn't you of picked a nicer father figure," Deadpool whines, plating the pancakes he'd cooked and handing them to Peter.

"Thank you," Peter says graciously, giving Deadpool a quick kiss at the corner of his masked mouth. "And, uh. No. No meeting, at least that I know of? Can't I just compliment you without having any ulterior motives?"

Deadpool seems lost again. He's frozen, hands holding his own plate of pancakes mid-air. Peter waves a hand in front of his face in hopes of knocking him out of his stupor. He tries snapping his fingers, but all Deadpool does is raise a hand to his mouth. Then, when all else fails, Peter smacks his arm. Admittedly harder than he intended.

"Ow!" Deadpool stumbles, and Peter worries his pancakes will slide off his plate and land on the floor. "Petey packs a punch, what was that for!?"

"Sorry." Peter cringes, feeling a bit guilty. "Didn't mean to hit you that hard, but you were being weird!"

"_I_ was being weird!? That's almost as rich as I am! You're the one being weird, assaulting me with your mouth!"

Peter's confused. Not that the feeling was unfamiliar at this point.

"I'm.... sorry?" Should he have asked? Maybe their relationship was a bit different than others? Maybe Deadpool wasn't comfortable with affection at any given time?

Deadpool grunts. "Just surprised me is all, baby boy. Not an unwelcome advance, just an... unexpected one. Sheesh, who knew hitting your head would make you this affectionate."

Once again, Peter found himself with more questions than answers. Was he not very affectionate before his injury? That doesn't sound like him, but then again he doesn't exactly know himself. Maybe he just wasn't all that nice before because of their mysterious fight that Peter can't remember. If that's the case, then he gets it. He'd be surprised too if his boyfriend went from hating him to, well, not hating him.

Maybe Deadpool was uncomfortable with how fast things were advancing after their fallout?

"Do you want me to... back off?" Peter asks, feeling bad for not taking Deadpool's feelings into consideration. No wonder he's been so hesitant.

"No, no, no." Deadpool sets his plate down, and places a warm hand in Peter's hair. Peter relaxes into the touch. "You're fine, like, so fine. The finest. I'm just worried, is all. You go from pelting me with pillows to _using_ me as a pillow. Not to say I don't _want_ to be your pillow, because baby, I do. I'm just confused, since you never seemed interested in wanting that. Me. As your pillow."

So... his former self wasn't much of a cuddler?

"I can still pelt you with pillows, if it makes you feel better," Peter mumbles, sleepy from Deadpool's hands feeling around his head. "What're you doing?"

"Checking to see if you still have a bump." Deadpool finishes by ruffling his hair, then pulls away. Peter whines at the loss. "It seems to have gone down."

"M'kay," Peter replies, trying to shake himself out of his sudden sleepiness; brought to him by his horrible boyfriend with magic hands. "Shall we eat?" Peter gestures to the couch, ignoring the table entirely.

Deadpool grabs the syrup and nods sagely. "We shall."

Peter beams at him, content and for the first time not overwhelmed with confusion.

Soon. He'd remember soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if peter discovering his powers for the first time wasn't enough, here's him discovering them for a second!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, i am so so sorry for the wait!
> 
> i had planned on updating a lot sooner, but life seemed to have other plans for me. after writing a fair amount and planning on only releasing chapters once i'd finished, my laptop broke on me.
> 
> i ended up losing all of my progress, so i felt pretty discouraged for a bit of time. but thanks to your incredibly sweet comments i finally got around to writing again! i also have a pretty good idea on where this story is going now, which is definitely an upside!
> 
> anyways, thank you for your patience as well as your kind words on the last chapter! i seriously appreciate it a ton <3

This really wasn’t a problem that Peter expected to encounter at three in the morning. In fact, this wasn’t a problem that Peter expected to encounter ever, regardless of the time, because who the hell thinks to expect something like this?

Peter looks to the motionless figure on the other side of the bed, reluctant to wake the man up, especially considering how difficult it was to get Deadpool to sleep next to him in the first place.

The man had still insisted he sleep on the couch every now and then, citing his worry for making Peter uncomfortable as the reason, which broke Peter’s heart into a million tiny pieces.

Deadpool was good; he was _kind_. Not only that, but he loved Peter. Peter was sure of it, and only became more certain with every passing second that he spent here.

The way that Deadpool’s head snapped towards him every time Peter expressed an ounce of pain or discomfort could almost be considered funny if it didn’t bring with it the heartbreaking reminder that Peter couldn’t remember who he believed to be the most important person in his life. Or, the way that he doted on Peter like his life depended on it; cooking for him, checking his injuries, bringing him blankets when he was cold (which was a lot, oddly enough), and even telling Peter weird but earnest bedtime stories whenever Peter struggled with falling asleep.

So yeah, it wasn’t hard to come to the conclusion that Deadpool was in love with him. It was hard, however, to think of them having a fight so bad that Deadpool felt chastised enough to sleep on the couch alone.

Hell, the man barely fit on the couch when sprawled out.

He’s suddenly struck with the intense desire to curl up against Deadpool’s back, which brings his attention back to his current predicament, since it’s the only thing keeping him from doing so.

He looks at his hand on the bedside table and gently tries to tug it away from the wooden surface. It doesn’t move. He tugs it again.

And again.

And, with enough force to rattle the contents within the table’s drawers, he tugs again.

“Deadpool,” Peter whispers into the darkness, trying to keep the growing panic out of his voice. “Deadpool, wake up.”

The figure stirs, but doesn’t make a noise to Peter’s dismay. He tugs again. The table moves closer to where he’s sat at the side of the bed, but continues to hold his hand hostage.

“Deadpool,” Peter practically whines, this time unable to keep his voice steady.

Before Peter’s able to get out another word, Deadpool shoots up, effectively giving Peter whiplash.

The man looks over towards him, mask creasing in a way that tells Peter that he’s furrowing his ‘brows. “Baby boy?”

“I’m stuck.”

Deadpool nods, like he understands. Peter feels himself slouch a little in relief.

“Yeah?” He prompts, voice already working to soothe Peter’s nerves. “We all get a little stuck sometimes, Petey. But listen, life is like a garbage truck. It’s smelly, and full of trash, but it keeps on moving. It has to move, because otherwise—“

His relief, he quickly realizes, was premature.

“No,” Peter interrupts, hating how pathetic he sounds. “No, I, not like that. I can’t move my hand. I... don’t know what to do.” He looks down at his hand with growing embarrassment, and then back at Deadpool.

This time, he thinks, Deadpool might really understand. He leans over Peter to click on the lamp, and immediately spots the offending appendage.

“Has this happened before?” Deadpool asks, moving to sit with Peter on the side of the bed.

“I think so, yeah.” Peter pauses to think. “After nightmares, normally, I think,” he responds, and it doesn’t feel like a lie.

Maybe he’s slowly coming back to himself.

Deadpool nods. He gently runs his fingers along the seam of where Peter’s palm and table meet, then effectively dwarfs Peter’s hand with his own. He pulls, careful not to squeeze too hard. Nothing changes.

Peter huffs, because of all things to get stuck to of course he’d get stuck to a stupid bedside table covered in mysterious brown stains and water rings. He’s also not sure what’s inside the table’s drawers, but he gets the feeling that he’d really rather not find out.

He looks up at Deadpool, forlorn.

“D’awwww.” Deadpool cups Peter’s face, smooshing his cheeks together. “Don’t give me those eyes, Bambi. I can’t focus on a solution if that face of yours is causing problems. Down boy! One thing at a time.”

Peter tilts his head in Deadpool’s hands, not sure who that last part was directed towards. The movement causes him to slightly nuzzle Deadpool’s palm, and he relishes in how comforting the warmth is.

Everything about Deadpool is comforting.

“Sorry?” He apologizes, because Deadpool seems genuinely at odds. “Who’s Bambi?”

Deadpool runs a hand through Peter’s hair, and Peter pushes up against it.

“No,” Deadpool shakes his head, ignoring Peter’s question. “Your eyes say doe, but your behavior says cat. Wait, but your mutation says spider. What _are_ you?*”

“Tired,” Peter answers, taking a peek at the alarm clock to see only 15 minutes had passed since he first woke up.

“That’s the cat in you,” Deadpool says seriously, and Peter knows so little about himself that he almost believes it.

How silly. There’s no way science has already developed a way to genetically alter a human using another species DNA.

But then again, aliens. Jazz hands

God, he’s tired.

Deadpool takes in his drooping eyes before lowly saying, “Alright, bedbug. Let’s get this figured out so you can get your beauty sleep.”

Deadpool goes to take away the hand stroking Peter’s hair. Before he can think better of it, Peter grabs his wrist, stopping it in its departure. “No,” Peter complains, placing Deadpool’s hand atop his head. Request to keep going obvious.

“Well, that solves that problem.” Deadpool, ever the loving boyfriend, continues carding his fingers through Peter’s hair. “I’m glad you’ve got your hand back, at the cost of my own. Not that I mind. My hand is yours to do with as you please.”

Peter blinks his eyes open in surprise, trying to remember when he’d closed them in the first place. He looks at the hand gripping Deadpool’s wrist, and recognizes it as the one the table had previously held hostage.

“Oh,” Peter says, full of relief.

Crisis averted.

Peter flops back down on the bed, curling his legs towards his chest and bringing his free hand to rest in front of his face. He nestles into his pillow, ready to finally obtain some much needed rest.

“Sweetheart?” Deadpool’s voice brings him back from the brink of sleep. Peter hums, prompting him to continue. “Can I have my hand back? Just for a second. I need to hit the little boys room.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

“I’m... stuck.”

-

Peter wishes he could say that that night was an isolated incident, and that nothing weird happened after that.

It was not.

He was currently tucked into the side of the couch, watching Deadpool watch him. Previously, he’d been watching Deadpool shoot digital zombies before he had turned it off to face Peter.

Under normal circumstances, Peter would’ve basked in the attention. But the mask was bunched up between where the man’s eyebrows should be.

He’s furrowing again; something he seems to be doing often around Peter lately.

“Did you have a fight with the missus back at home or something?” Deadpool asks, and Peter decides to crawl closer towards where the man is sitting.

“What, no?” Peter replies, reaching his desired location and sitting. He tucks his legs under his thighs so that he can face Deadpool. “Why would ask ask that? You know there’s no ‘missus’ back at home.”

Peter can’t help the frustration that bubbles up in him when he sees the mask’s crease deepen. He wishes that he could help Deadpool relax the way Deadpool helps  
him.

“Hey now, no pouting,” Deadpool chastises, and Peter flicks his chest in retaliation. “You’ve been here for almost a week and you haven’t said a peep about going home. What’s the deal?”

Deadpool runs a comforting hand down Peter’s arm, melting away the ire brought on by the false accusation. He does not _pout_.

He lies though, and while he was lying to save Deadpool the anxiety that Peter _knew_ would come with the knowledge of his amnesia, he also couldn’t help but feel guilty.

Deadpool deserves the truth.

Deadpool also deserves to be able to sleep at night without worrying about Peter.

“I just want to spend more time with you,” Peter says, and continues when Deadpool makes a noise that sounds an awful lot like he’s doubting him, “I _like_ spending time with you. And I... don’t really want to go home right now. Is that ok?”

Peter hopes that’s an adequate enough explanation.

“‘Is that ok,’ he says,” Deadpool repeats to himself, then replies to Peter using a voice so soft that Peter doubts he’d hear it if he weren’t a breeze away from falling into Deadpool’s lap. “Of course that’s ok, baby boy. You can stay here for as long as you want.”

Peter nods, the warmth blooming in his chest making it impossible to keep from smiling. “Thank you,” he says, tentatively giving Deadpool’s masked cheek a kiss.

Deadpool’s breath hitches, but when Peter glances up he sees that the crease has disappeared entirely.

Peter thinks they’re done with the conversation, and begins to move so that he can snuggle into Deadpool’s chest only to pause when the man speaks up again.

“Do you have a phone?” Peter blinks at him. “As much as I love seeing you in my clothes, I don’t love seeing you almost trip every time your—my sweatpants end up under your feet. Your short legs are no match for the garments of a towering Casanova such as myself.”

“A phone?” Peter repeats, ignoring the short comment but storing it away to use against him later.

“A phone. Short for telephone, derived from the greek words τῆλε and φωνή. Super effective for ordering takeout when hungry baby boys with fast metabolisms make a home for themselves in your apartment.”

Peter ignores the giddy way the word home makes him feel and does not ask how Deadpool knows Greek.

Instead, in a poor attempt to divert attention away from himself, he asks, “Do you?”

“Yes, snookums, I have a phone,” Deadpool answers, sounding exasperated but fond.

Peter knows immediately that Deadpool is aware of what he’s trying to do, but is indulging him anyway. Like always.

Well, might as well take advantage of Deadpool’s mercy. He stupidly asks, “What do you use it for?”

“Porn.”

Peter doesn’t laugh, because he knows it’s not a joke.

He goes to flick Deadpool for the second time that day, but Deadpool catches his hand halfway, effectively stopping the assault. Not that Peter minds. Deadpool’s hand is warm against his, and he can’t help the content hum he lets out when Deadpool doesn’t let go immediately. Instead, he gives a reassuring squeeze, then goes to turn off the TV.

“What’re you doing?” Peter asks when Deadpool passes the couch and starts heading towards the door.

“I think you mean what are _we_ doing,” Deadpool corrects, grabbing a large red jacket and gesturing Peter over to him. “And _we_ are going shopping. You, my sweet little plum, are in dire need of clothes that actually fit you.”

So, they’re going out.

Like a date, Peter’s brain whispers.

Peter gets up and complies, letting Deadpool fit his arms through the holes. Deadpool comes around to zip him up, then boops his nose for good measure. Peter’s gaze follows his finger, making him go cross-eyed.

He must be a site for sore eyes. Oversized red jacket covering his oversized black t-shirt. Which was accompanied by oversized grey sweatpants, and if the way Deadpool was motioning him towards the shoes was any indicator, Peter had a feeling that some oversized Crocs would be joining him shortly.

“I don’t have any money,” Peter says, but the realization does nothing to stomp out the sudden excitement he feels at the thought of going out with Deadpool.

They’d been cooped up for so long, which wasn’t exactly torture in and of itself. He got to spend time with his boyfriend, all while being fed like a king. Despite his memory loss, Peter felt safe saying that he ate best when in Deadpool’s presence. It was like the man had sonar hearing when it came to Peter’s appetite; if his stomach so much as made the tiniest of grumbles, Deadpool would immediately shoot up and head to the kitchen or order copious amounts of takeout.

He really doesn’t know what he did to deserve such an attentive partner.

Deadpool gives him a disapproving look. “Why would you need money? I’m buying,” he replies cheerily, heading out the door and giving Peter no choice but to slip on the hideous Crocs and follow.

The thought of Deadpool treating him made the outing seem all the more like a date! Sorta, kinda. Bred out of necessity, but eh. Peter shrugs. Semantics.

Peter goes to shut the door behind him, paying more attention to his thoughts than to his surroundings. He’s quickly snapped back to reality when he hears the splintering of wood accompanied by a loud sound.

His back straightens.

He turns around to see the door about ripped off of its hinges, barely able to stand upright with what little support it has left.

“Don’t worry about it,” Deadpool says, assessing the damage from behind Peter. “I know a guy who owes me a favor. It was an old door anyway.”

Peter does not call him out on the lie.

Deadpool puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder, coaxing him to turn around so that they can continue on their way. With a lasting glance, Peter follows.

So yeah, that night wasn’t an isolated incident.

-

Peter was trying very, _very_ hard not to drop all of the clothes Deadpool was throwing his way so that he could hide in a corner and cover his ears.

It had started out well enough, with Deadpool pointing out all of the dogs they came across so that Peter could guess their names as well as what their owners did for a living.

For example, they’d passed a small Bichon that Peter instantly vowed was named Chloe, because aren’t they all. Then deemed the owner to have a degree in disrespecting customer service workers; partially because of her haircut, and partially because she had rudely bumped into Peter. Deadpool agreed on that one, but pretty much disagreed with the rest of Peter’s assumptions.

In fact, he most adamantly disagreed with Peter when it came to one man specifically. He had been wearing a swanky black suit, with a black tie to match. Along with a funny hat that Peter thought he could do without. Peter had guessed that he was an accountant, but Deadpool had insisted, rather confidently, that he was an arms dealer.

His dog was a lot smaller than what Peter would have imagined an arms dealer to have, but to each their own.

Then the smells started. Small at first, but worsening the longer Peter stayed outside. It started out smelling like hot dog water, then the scent of smoke and burnt rubber assaulted his senses. Until they’d passed an ominous ally and the overwhelming scent of piss was enough to make Peter gag. The scent stayed with him until they’d entered the store.

Now it just smells like sweat and artificial vanilla. Not great, but bearable.

What wasn’t bearable, however, was the _sounds_. It wasn’t just one sound, either. It was car horns, and ticking clocks, and shuffling feet, and ringing phones, and coughing, and private conversations, and then things started blending together; effectively making it feel like someone was banging pots and pans together inside his own skull.

The volume of each and every thing made him want to rip the hair out of his head. Someone could yell in his ear using a bullhorn and it still wouldn’t have the same effect. It was excruciating.

Deadpool, thank God, seems to notice that something is wrong almost immediately. After one glance at Peter, he ends whatever conversation he’s having with the salesperson and returns to his side.

Straight away, Peter sets down the mountain of clothes and holds out his hand. Deadpool takes it in stride, and Peter feels an ounce better knowing he’s not alone.

“What’s wrong?” Deadpool asks, and Peter’s able to somehow hear it through the sea of noise.

Peter takes a trembling breath. “It’s loud,” he replies. To his own ears, it sounds like he’s talking underwater, but Deadpool seems to hear him just fine given the way he’s nodding his head to continue. “Everything’s _so_ loud. Things I’m not supposed to hear are loud. There’s a baby crying, and there aren’t any babies in this store, and it’s _loud_.” The more he explains, the more frantic he can feel himself becoming.

Deadpool nods his head again, then crowds Peter against the wall, boxing him in by placing both hands on Peter’s arms.

If Deadpool were anyone else, Peter thinks he’d feel threatened with the way he was looming over him. He poses an intimidating figure; large enough so that Peter couldn’t see past him, which meant that nobody could see Peter in turn. Only Peter couldn’t imagine fearing the man. Not with the way he was currently rubbing his arms, trying his best to bring Peter back from the brink of panic.

Peter knows he must’ve loved him before he lost his memories; thinks he loves him even now, without them.

“Okay, I need you to take a deep breath for me Petey,” Deadpool instructs, then continues once Peter does, “Now close your eyes and try your best to pick just one noise out of everything. I know that probably sounds impossible right now, but I want you to try for me.”

Peter closes his eyes and curls his hands against Deadpool’s chest, gripping at the man’s suit. Deadpool covers both of his hands with one of his own.

He tries his best to do as told. He listens for anything that could best be described as calming, which immediately makes the crying baby and car horns poor contenders. The sirens aren’t sounding too appealing either. He quickly settles on a steady beating that he immediately recognizes as Deadpool’s heart.

“Have you done what I’ve asked?”

Peter nods.

“Atta boy, I knew you had it in you!” Coming from anyone else, Peter would’ve clocked the words as condescending. But Deadpool sounds nothing but sincere, so he lets it slide. “Now focus on it. Let that one sound drown everything else out. Listen to it until the rest becomes background noise.”

Easier said than done.

Deadpool must notice his hesitation, because he reassures, “You can take as long as you need. There’s no rush.”

So he does, he takes his time.

He listens to the man’s heart pump blood throughout his veins and arteries, and Peter swears he feels his own heart syncing up to the steady rhythm. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and allows Deadpool’s heart to act as an anchor. Which was really what it was at that moment, keeping Peter from drifting away with the sea of noises that could overwhelm him at any second.

Slowly, things start to quiet down. It was still loud, but loud in the way that New York always was. It was a loudness that he could tolerate; nothing like it was before.

After what felt like an eternity, but was probably only five minutes, Peter opens his eyes. He’s greeted by the sight Deadpool’s panda mask.

“How do you feel, Steven Spiel?”

“What? Who’s Steven?” Peter feels a spark of jealousy ignite in him, momentarily forgetting his previous situation.

Deadpool lets out an exaggerated gasp. “Jaws, Jurassic Park, Indiana Jones, ringing any bells?”

“... Movies you’ve watched with Steven?”

“Movies I’ve watched _because_ of Steven, more like.” Deadpool laughs, then pats Peter’s shoulder before heading towards the pile of clothes abandoned on the floor. “The only one I’m watching movies with is you. Now c’mon, let’s check out and head home.”

Peter lets the question of who Steven is remain unanswered, mostly because Deadpool referred to the apartment as their ‘home’ again. Peter really was a sucker for that word.

He’s helpless but to follow after the man, tapping his shoulder only once his stomach growls.

Deadpool inclines his head towards him, and Peter’s not sure if it’s because of his attempt at getting his attention or if it’s his sonar hearing, alerting him of Peter’s appetite once more.

“Do you want to hit up the food truck we passed on the way here? I think I saw macaroni hotdogs on the menu,” Peter asks, empty stomach begging to be fed.

Deadpool gives him a strange look, then replies, voice filled with dread “Don’t you remember what happened last time we went there?” The man does a full body shiver.

Peter does not, but he had a feeling that he’d rather forgo a reminder.

-

They were home watching Jaws, a movie that Deadpool swears he’s only ever watched with Peter—_Steven directed it, he directed it. You need to tell me what rock you’re living under so that I can sell it, baby boy_—when Peter realizes that not once had Deadpool seemed phased by his particular displays of weirdness.

“Hey,” Peter whispers, raising his head from where it was resting on Deadpool’s shoulder. The man no longer tensed when Peter would try to cuddle up to him, which was progress. “How’d you know how to help me today?”

Deadpool turns his head to meet his gaze, mask stilled rolled up from when they were eating. “Huh? With the hearing thing?”

Peter nods.

Deadpool looks contemplative at first, then he rolls his head back to look at the ceiling. “I just remembered your origin story, I guess. You told me it was hell for you to get your senses under control once you first mutated—you said it helped when you focused on something.”

“Oh,” Peter says dumbly. So he’d always had these—quirks. At least for as long as he’s known Deadpool. “Thank you. For helping me, I mean. You do that a lot.”

Deadpool brings his gaze back down from the ceiling and ruffles his hair. “That accident must’ve really done a number on you,” he sighs. “If those aliens weren’t already dead, I think I’d kill them a second time.”

“No killing,” Peter says without thinking.

“Yeah, yeah. New leaf and all that. You just seem a little different lately.” Peter holds his breath, waiting for the other ball to drop. “Like your powers are controlling you more than you are them.”

Peter exhales.

“Maybe it was the accident?” He suggests.

“You think the accident made you lose control of your powers?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods vigorously. “I mean, I’m not entirely sure what else it could be. I think I’m getting things back under control though, especially since you’re helping me.”

Deadpool stays suspiciously quiet, and Peter’s forced to listen to the screams on TV in the meanwhile. The man chews on his exposed lip. Peter, for his part, has to resist the urge to kiss him.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t talk to Doctor B—“

“No!” Peter cuts him off, louder than he means to. He softens his voice, “Sorry, I mean, no. Not really. I’d rather just ride it out with you, so please don’t worry too much. No doctors, ok? Not even,” Peter pauses, searching his memory for the name Deadpool mentioned days ago. “Not even Banner.”

“If you’re sure.” Deadpool sounds hesitant. He looks at Peter like he’s afraid he’ll disappear at any moment, and Peter wonders if there was a time where he almost did.

Peter grabs his hand, lacing his fingers between the larger man’s own. He gives a gentle squeeze, hoping to dissuade Deadpool from worrying any further.

“I’m sure,” Peter replies, then tries his best to tuck himself even further into Deadpool’s side, if possible.

Deadpool wraps his arm around Peter’s shoulders, and Peter thinks that they’ll be ok. He’d remember, and in the meantime, he’ll keep Deadpool from worrying about a scenario in which he doesn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on [tumblr](https://aftvrnoon.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
